The Great Unknowable End

by Kathryn Ormsbee

  Hey, you’re saying, this seems like a sacred moment. You should appreciate it.

  Yeah, well, you haven’t had to sit through loads of these.

  Community meetings are never that interesting—a disappointing realization I got when I turned thirteen and was allowed to attend my first one. Up until that point, Archer and I had theorized that these meetings were where the adults discussed pain-of-death secrets like where they grew the special cannabis stash and what kind of outsiders they let into the gates after midnight. As it turns out, all we talk about here is how the crops are doing and any upcoming events and how we’re holding up in the public eye.

  From what I can tell, most people in Slater don’t mind us, and plenty of them love the food at the Moonglow Café. The local police have paid us some visits, though. Once because one of our Crossing youths got hit by a car. He was fine, just broke a leg, but there was a lot of squabbling about bringing him back here to be treated by our three physicians—trained on the Outside but also believers in a holistic view of the body and its relationship with the Life Force—rather than taking him to the hospital. In the end the commune won out, and the guy (his name is Cal; we aren’t that close) was better in a few months. The most recent police visit was back in May, after some Slater teenager got caught with a bag of weed and insisted he’d bought it off a member of Red Sun. The police came in then and searched the whole place. They didn’t find anything. They could’ve saved themselves the trouble if they attended our boring monthly meetings. Then they’d know Red Sun has absolutely nothing to hide. No dark secrets or hidden perversions here. Those are on the Outside.

  It’s chilly in Common House. Hard breezes keep sweeping through the open windows and giving me goose bumps. And under my skin there’s hot, nervous energy.

  I’m going out tonight. For the first time in my life, I’m going out.

  Archer has promised he’s going to make tonight “unforgettable,” but he won’t let me in on any details. He usually runs with the rest of the Crossing crowd—teenagers, younger than us, who are on their first or second summer. Archer has assumed the role of their wise leader. I guess he’s earned it. Tonight, though, he assures me, it’s only the two of us. I get the special treatment.

  I didn’t think I’d be this worked up about going Outside. It’s kind of been eating at me all day—during my morning prayer to Janis Joplin and my work in the kitchen and my expert dodging of any interaction with Phoenix. It doesn’t help that the weird winds from yesterday have stuck around. They’ve been blowing up dust and dirt, unsettling the animals, whipping up everyone’s clothes and hair. Those winds, they’re acting the way I feel inside, heaving one way, then the other, indecisive on what direction I’m going. The truth is, I’m well and truly worked up about the Dreamlight, and Archer can sense it, even when we’re sitting, saying nothing; he keeps casting me these sidelong smirks.

  Rod gets up to give a report on corn, wheat, and livestock. Of the three Council members, I like Rod least. He oversees the farming and commerce and came on after Leander died. Since he joined the Council, he’s made a whole lot of changes, and even though Opal is technically the head of the Council, she’s allowed Rod to do what he wants. Most people say that’s because Opal got old and tired, and she’s never been the same since Leander died. Plenty of those people also say that Rod transformed Red Sun into the organized, well-run collective it is today. Some of Rod’s changes were unpopular, though. Like the decision to stop importation of music and literature from the Outside.

  According to Rod, the crops are faring well. This summer he and his workers have scattered hair collected by our commune barber across the fields; apparently the human scent keeps away deer. It’s a smart plan, I guess, but I’m having trouble hearing it over the winds blowing within me, and without.

  It’s as Rod is droning on about the upcoming wheat planting that I feel it growing in my chest: the throat tic. Seconds later it bursts out of me—a brief but noticeable throat clearing. Then silence. Reprieve. Then it comes again. And again.

  “Fuck,” I mutter, only to give way to yet another burst.

  Archer casts me another sidelong look, this time sympathetic. It’s the law of the land that I get my most obvious tics when I’m sitting in a crowded space. It’s kind of funny, I’ll admit. Mostly, though, it’s humiliating. I sink my head into my hands and press a swallow down on my throat, willing the tic to let up, cut me a break for once. In this new, dark hiding hole of mine, Rod’s booming voice sounds more serious than usual.

  “. . . strange, to say the least. From what we can tell, they’ve been riled up by this shift in weather we’ve been having. But the winds are bound to die down soon, and we have no doubt our hens will resume their normal egg-laying schedule.”

  The crowd is whispering. I look up in time to see Harmony, a friend of Ruby’s, raise her hand. Rod nods toward her, and she stands and says, “The winds have been bad. Unpredictable, too. It was especially difficult harvesting the pepper crop today. But, Rod, do you think it’s only those winds upsetting the hens?”

  “We’re looking into every possibility,” Rod answers her. “We’ve also taken out their feed for examination.”

  “But they only stopped laying when these winds kicked up?” asks a man two seats over from me. Clive. He works in the orchards.

  “That’s correct. Hence our theory. No doubt those of you who work with our goats and horses have noted that they’ve been unsettled as well.” There’s murmuring in the crowd, and people around me nod their heads. Rod smiles out at us reassuringly. “Only a change in the weather. It’s not a cause for panic, I assure you.”

  “Bad call,” Archer mutters, leaning in to me. “Never say ‘panic’ in a crowded room.”

  Rod gives the floor to Saff, who begins her report on the gardens. This summer’s tomato and watermelon crops have been especially good, and she’s taking her sweet time thanking each of the commune members who tilled and watered and gathered in the past months. At this rate, we’ll be recognizing every single one of Red Sun’s three-hundred-odd adult members for their agrarian service.

  My tic won’t settle, and I know it’s bugging the people around me, even though they don’t look my way or say anything. Everyone in this room knows who I am: Galliard, the kid who can’t help it. I’ve been that kid since I was nine, when the tics first started up. It was Arlo, the youngest of the commune’s three physicians, who diagnosed me and told Ruby and J. J. that, while there were some new medicines that might help me, they would have to see a doctor on the Outside about them. Normally, Red Sun parents stay out of medical stuff, to keep from forming bonds and all, but Opal said this case was special, so Ruby and J. J. got to make the call. They discussed sending me out, but eventually they decided against it. Ruby was afraid that leaving the commune so often would disorient me, and in the end, as Arlo told us, there’s not a cure for what I have, which on the Outside is known as Tourette’s syndrome.

  I guess, in a way, it was nice to hear that there was a name for what I was going through. When the tics first started up, I felt out of control and alone; no one else at Red Sun jerked their jaw or cleared their throat the way I did. A name for those jaw jerks and throat clears meant I wasn’t the only one.

  A name doesn’t make having Tourette’s any easier, though.

  Eventually, Saff stops thanking the world, and the meeting-that-will-never-end ends. Even as Archer and I head down the back steps of Common House, my tics won’t leave me. They’re sticking around until further notice, obeying an unheard command to clear my perfectly clear throat.

  “So, uh, don’t look now, but there’s a Phoenix at your back.”

  Archer warns me only seconds before I hear Phoenix call out, “Galliard! Hey, Galliard, wait up!”

  Not a chance. I walk faster. Archer keeps in step.

  Phoenix doesn’t get the message. He runs, catching up and rounding in front of us, blowing out short breaths of air.

  “Can I help you
with something?” I ask my former friend.

  Phoenix is a big guy. He’s tall, with a hard-cut jaw and harder-cut biceps. His face doesn’t belong on his body, though. It’s big-eyed and babyish, like a doll’s. Other members of Red Sun, at a loss for a word that describes this phenomenon, call it “charming.” Ever since Phoenix showed up at Red Sun two years back, he’s managed to charm his way into a comfortable existence. I guess you could even say he charmed me into being his friend.

  But that’s over. That’s done.

  “Would you let me explain?” Phoenix says. “That’s all I’m asking. Hear me out.”

  I look at Phoenix. Archer looks at me. A gust of wind heaves against us, raising the hairs on my arms. I clear my throat.

  “Okay,” I say. “Explain.”

  Phoenix’s collar flaps in the wind, but he remains stalwart. “I didn’t know how to tell you,” he says. “I knew how much you wanted resident artist, but . . . I did too. Always have.”

  “Oh yeah. Always. Since you showed up here two years ago.”

  “I didn’t mean always. I—look, I used the wrong word. Cut me some slack.”

  “Sure.” My blood temperature is shooting sky-high, but on the outside, I stay calm. I know it’ll make Phoenix mad, and I want him to feel as furious as I do. “Of course, you’re right. I should cut you some slack. Now that you have what you’ve always wanted and I have nothing, I should be the one cutting you slack.”

  “I was miserable in the fields. It wasn’t my calling. I don’t make a good farmer; I make a good artist. It’s how my talents can best serve the community, and the Council saw that. They wouldn’t have considered my special petition otherwise. They wouldn’t have chosen me.”

  “They wouldn’t have chosen you if you hadn’t made a special petition.”

  “Come on, is that fair? Just because you told me how much you wanted resident artist, that means I can’t go for it? Even if it’s what’s best for me? Anyway, the assignment is only ten years. You’ll have another chance. I’m older than you, so it makes sense that I should get it first.”

  I can’t look at him. I can’t look at his stupid baby face. Instead I look beyond him. At the commune gate. Another gritty sound emerges from the base of my throat.

  Then I say, “You know this is what I’ve wanted since I was a kid. You knew what it meant to me. And now they have me working in the kitchen. The fucking kitchen, Phoenix.”

  “Hey,” says Phoenix, all soft and packed with charm. He reaches out, but what is he expecting? I’m not touching his traitor hand. “Hey, you’ve got a right to be angry. I know I should’ve told you ahead of time. Just tell me what I can do to make it better.”

  You can forswear painting. You can leave Red Sun and never come back. You can drop dead. You can do a lot.

  I sidestep him and keep walking. Archer hurries to join me.

  “Cold move,” he says, glancing back.

  I don’t glance. I don’t want to see Phoenix. I’m not any closer to forgiving that confirmed prick than I was yesterday morning, and I’ve been doing an excellent job of avoiding him between then and now: closing my door in Heather House; grabbing meals from the kitchen and eating them outside, behind the tractor shed; staying on hours later than my regular shift at the Moonglow.

  Don’t run away from your problems, Galliard! you’re shouting.

  Okay, calm down. I’m not an idiot. I know this whole thing will eventually blow up. Right now, though, I can’t picture a full conversation with Phoenix that doesn’t involve me punching his face, and as Archer has already pointed out, there’s no way I’ll win that fight.

  I tell myself it’s not that I’m a coward; I’m playing it smart. I need time and space away from Phoenix, even if he can’t get that through his thick skull. Could be I won’t be seeing red in a few days. Or months. Maybe a half decade or so. Until then, I’ll ice him out. It’s not juvenile; it’s in the interest of preserving breakable bones.

  Phoenix must have given up, because I don’t hear him call again, and the footsteps behind us thin out until it’s only me and Archer, taking the narrow dirt path to the commune’s front gate.

  “Got cash?” Archer asks.

  I pat the back pocket of my jeans, nod.

  There’s a set protocol for how Crossing is done. At the start of the summer, every eligible youth is given an allowance—money made from the proceeds of the Moonglow Café and any farm sales—to spend on the Outside however they want. I’ve always refused mine until this morning, when I paid a visit to Saff’s office and asked if I could have this summer’s allowance after all. She looked at me funny, as though she wanted to ask a long list of follow-up questions. In the end, though, she didn’t. She said yes, of course, I was welcome to my allowance until the end of August, and since I hadn’t ever taken advantage of it until now, she was giving me a little extra. She took a stack of green bills from a metal box and handed them to me, and since that time they’ve sat, folded, in my jeans pocket. I didn’t bother counting them; the numbers wouldn’t mean anything.

  “If we play our cards right, we won’t even need money tonight. Then again, you never know where the wind will take us.” Archer is walking backward, facing me, hands atop his head. He’s enjoying this too much, knowing what I don’t. The very wind he’s talking about is having its own fun, grabbing the ends of Archer’s big red hair and twirling it around, sending it skyward one moment, into his eyes the next. It’s working on me, too, billowing through my linen tunic, giving me fresh waves of chills.

  That you? I wonder, glancing heavenward, catching sight of my gods up there, three across in the sky. That’s when the wind changes direction, blowing into me like a great big push at my back.

  I take this as an answer. I keep on following Archer.

  We make our way past the gardens, past Dining Hall, all the way to the Moonglow and the long metal fence that runs out from the building on both sides. To the right of the café is the front gate, one of the commune’s only two exits—or entrances, depending on your perspective. The back gate is over by the farmland, and it’s only for authorized vehicles.

  “Charlie!” Archer calls, waving ahead to a bulky, mustached guy manning the front gate. Charlie looks over everyone who goes in and out of Red Sun, inspecting their pockets and bags for any sign of contraband upon their return. We crossers can experience the Outside, but we cannot bring any part of it back in. Those are the rules. In the past, one too many adult members asked for a crosser to sneak back their favorite drink or unapproved book. Then, when Rod joined the Council, he appointed Charlie and another guy, Rex, whose sole assignments are to take shifts checking over every Red Sun member who returns to the commune from the Outside. I’ve never actually spoken to Charlie, but for a big, six-foot-five gatekeeper he seems nice enough. He waves at Archer and then looks at me.

  “Well, I’ll be,” he says. “Never thought I’d see you coming through here. Thought you were a diehard.”

  I can’t tell if Charlie’s looking at me in admiration or disappointment. Could be a little of both.

  “Guess I’m not,” I say, shrugging.

  “Ruby and J. J. know about it?”

  “No.”

  That’s when I realize that, for all the thinking I’ve done about Crossing today, I never once thought to mention it to Ruby or J. J. They would care more than the other adults, sure, but it’s not like I owe them an explanation. They’re not recognized as having a claim on me any more than Charlie himself.

  “Well.” Charlie screws up his eyes. “Just be back by midnight, remember.”

  “Always have been,” says Archer. “Not gonna turn delinquent now.” He salutes Charlie and heads through the open gate.

  A fresh wind blows over me, restless and forceful. I study the gate. It’s chain-link metal and stands a foot taller than me. I’ve lived behind it my entire life. And that hasn’t been a bad thing.

  Maybe it’s greedy to leave, or plain stupid. Maybe I’m making a mistake. />
  My jaw tic shows up, turning out my chin.

  “Hey!” Archer calls from the other side—the Outside. “Don’t get cold feet on me.”

  Charlie’s watching me closely. He definitely looks disappointed. Though about what, I haven’t a clue.

  “I dunno,” I call to Archer, jerking my jaw to the right. “I guess I’m thinking better of it.”

  “No! You’re thinking worse of it, man. Get out here, or I’ll come back in and kick your ass out.”

  Charlie makes a coughing sound, and I think I finally understand: It’s not disappointment; it’s pity. He doesn’t think I’m going to do it. He feels bad for me, because he thinks I won’t cross the line.

  Bastard.

  Phoenix’s voice is in my head: I’m older than you, so it makes sense that I should get it first.

  Then the wind is at my back, pushing on my spine, urging me forward.

  I can cross that line. I will.

  My jaw jerks.

  Then I walk through the open gate, and Archer cheers.

  I don’t trust myself to look back. Instead I look to the sky.

  My gods are still there, shining as brightly as they did on the inside of that gate. They’re looking down on me with . . . what? Approval?

  I guess I’ll find out soon enough.

  “C’mon, man!” Archer shouts. “Time’s a-wasting!”

  He sets off, running into the night, and this time I don’t hesitate. I follow.

  6

  Stella

  MONDAY, AUGUST 1

  Vine Street Salon is the cheeriest place in Slater. If you were to take a glass of orange juice and extract its essence—pulp-free—and if you were to paint that essence all over the walls and floors and ceilings, then you would have Vine Street Salon. I don’t say that just because the walls are orange (they are), but also because there is something bright and slightly tart about the place, and whenever I walk inside, I feel a little healthier. It may also be because Connie Nall, the head beautician, spritzes a round of Tangerine Dream air freshener each morning before we open.